The Court of Cupid By the Author of the Meretriciad [i.e. Edward Thompson]. Containing the Eighth Edition of the Meretriciad, with great Additions. In Two Volumes |
 | I, II. |
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COOPER'S WELL
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 | The Court of Cupid |  |
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COOPER'S WELL .
A FRAGMENT.
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TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE LORD ROCHESTER.
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Spissa Te nitidam coma.
Thee Lovely with thy bushy hair.
Sure there are lovers which did never sip
The stream of Venus; nor did taste the lip
Of Cooper's Well; we therefore may suppose
Those made some Lovers, and some Lovers those:
And as Wells make not Springs, but Springs the Well,
So, where the Graces, and the Muses dwell
Flows Cooper's Stream; if I can be to thee
A pleasing Bard, thou'rt Helicon to me.
Nor wonder if (new pinion'd in my wing,
By bathing in thy sliding silver spring)
Through long trac'd ways, and shady paths I flie,
Where Fancy reaches further than the eye:
My wanton eye, with raptures views the space
That lies between; and first salutes the place
Crown'd with the softest moss, sweet shrubs, and flowers;
Where, oft recline the greatest, gayest Powers
Of earth; and near two snowy Mountains stand,
Which may be climb'd by each advent'rous hand:
Below, a lovely, velvet Valley swells,
Where Strength with Beauty, Mars with Venus dwells;
And to the eye it doth itself present,
With such an easy, and unforc'd ascent,
No horrors there appear to hurt the eye,
Nor access to the Fair and Young deny:
But such a gentle slope, as doth invite
A pleasure, rapture, rev'rence for the sight;
Below, the Beauties, and the Graces dwell,
And the clear stream which trills from Cooper's Well.
Oh! happiness of sweet retir'd content,
Where I, my very happiest hours have spent.
The stream of Venus; nor did taste the lip
Of Cooper's Well; we therefore may suppose
Those made some Lovers, and some Lovers those:
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So, where the Graces, and the Muses dwell
Flows Cooper's Stream; if I can be to thee
A pleasing Bard, thou'rt Helicon to me.
Nor wonder if (new pinion'd in my wing,
By bathing in thy sliding silver spring)
Through long trac'd ways, and shady paths I flie,
Where Fancy reaches further than the eye:
My wanton eye, with raptures views the space
That lies between; and first salutes the place
Crown'd with the softest moss, sweet shrubs, and flowers;
Where, oft recline the greatest, gayest Powers
Of earth; and near two snowy Mountains stand,
Which may be climb'd by each advent'rous hand:
Below, a lovely, velvet Valley swells,
Where Strength with Beauty, Mars with Venus dwells;
And to the eye it doth itself present,
With such an easy, and unforc'd ascent,
No horrors there appear to hurt the eye,
Nor access to the Fair and Young deny:
But such a gentle slope, as doth invite
A pleasure, rapture, rev'rence for the sight;
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And the clear stream which trills from Cooper's Well.
Oh! happiness of sweet retir'd content,
Where I, my very happiest hours have spent.
Here Nature seems in all intent to please,
In moving up and down varieties;
Here soft delights from two soft causes move,
The cause of Beauty, and the cause of Love.
No unexpected inundations spoil
The Sower's hopes;—or mock the Ploughman's toil;
But Nature's gentle bounties gently run,
First love to do—then love the thing they've done;
Nor are the blessings to the banks confin'd,
But free, and common as the sea, and wind.—
O could I flow like thee, and make my theme,
As strong and lasting as thy purling stream!
Upon thy charms I would for ever dwell,
And only bathe within my Cooper's Well.—
In moving up and down varieties;
Here soft delights from two soft causes move,
The cause of Beauty, and the cause of Love.
No unexpected inundations spoil
The Sower's hopes;—or mock the Ploughman's toil;
But Nature's gentle bounties gently run,
First love to do—then love the thing they've done;
Nor are the blessings to the banks confin'd,
But free, and common as the sea, and wind.—
O could I flow like thee, and make my theme,
As strong and lasting as thy purling stream!
Upon thy charms I would for ever dwell,
And only bathe within my Cooper's Well.—
Here all the roughness of the creeping Wood,
Strives with the gentle oozings of the flood.
And tho' the stream's transparent, deep and clear,
Yet had the boy Narcissus gazed here;
He had not met with such a sad disgrace,
Had he the bottom seen, and not his face;
This lovely place, had the Ovidian Youth
Beheld of Yore, how he had stretch'd the mouth
Of Love, with am'rous tales of swains, and Dames,
And Priapus the God of female Flames;
Here had he prais'd young Cupid and his Courts;
For hither all the horned host resorts
To frisk, to wanton, gambol, bathe and graze,
And Nature's master-piece sublimely raise:
Which only proves great things beneath the sun,
When quickly rear'd as quickly are undone.
Thus an imperious Statesman, I could name,
By one deep motion sunk himself in shame:
How blest when both to the same centre move,
When one gives Liberty, the other Love.—
Thus, Sem'le grasping more than she could hold,
Made Jove oppressive, insolent, and bold;
Unthinking Dame! to force a God to give
More, than he made a mortal to receive:
The action prov'd—things carry'd to excess,
Made both, by striving to be greater, less:
Thus Cooper's Well, if swell'd by sudden rains,
May drown the ploughman—ploughing in her Plains,
He on her banks, no longer holds his seat,
Half drown'd—and shrunk, he trusts unto his feet.
Strives with the gentle oozings of the flood.
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Yet had the boy Narcissus gazed here;
He had not met with such a sad disgrace,
Had he the bottom seen, and not his face;
This lovely place, had the Ovidian Youth
Beheld of Yore, how he had stretch'd the mouth
Of Love, with am'rous tales of swains, and Dames,
And Priapus the God of female Flames;
Here had he prais'd young Cupid and his Courts;
For hither all the horned host resorts
To frisk, to wanton, gambol, bathe and graze,
And Nature's master-piece sublimely raise:
Which only proves great things beneath the sun,
When quickly rear'd as quickly are undone.
Thus an imperious Statesman, I could name,
By one deep motion sunk himself in shame:
How blest when both to the same centre move,
When one gives Liberty, the other Love.—
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Made Jove oppressive, insolent, and bold;
Unthinking Dame! to force a God to give
More, than he made a mortal to receive:
The action prov'd—things carry'd to excess,
Made both, by striving to be greater, less:
Thus Cooper's Well, if swell'd by sudden rains,
May drown the ploughman—ploughing in her Plains,
He on her banks, no longer holds his seat,
Half drown'd—and shrunk, he trusts unto his feet.
This is the place, where Love and Beauty roam
To spend their little matters free at home:
O! Love all eloquent, thy mighty sway,
Maids, Monarchs, Coblers, equally obey;
Thy poignant dart made rapid with a feather,
Pierces alike the sole, the upper leather:
Nought can resist thy sharp, thy gentle touch,
Thee all obey in little, and in much:
Women and men confess thy soft command,
And spread their Sovereign's image thro' the land;
Enraptur'd fall where e'er the arrow's sped,
The daisied Meadow, or the damask'd Bed;
Such is thy sovereign power, thy sovereign sway,
Beauty, fair ruler of the night and day.
Hail! gentle Empress hail! to mortals given;
Beauty thou first, thou fairest work of Heaven.
Of Men and Angels, thou sweet wonder, deign
To aid the Lover, and the Poet's strain:
Inspire my verse, inspire my am'rous tongue,
Till praise, thy due, breathes musical in song!
Inspire the Muse, that she may soar above
All meaner waters, to the spring of Love!
Whether Cythera fam'd, or Ida sing?
The Muse impatient seeks the silver spring.
To spend their little matters free at home:
O! Love all eloquent, thy mighty sway,
Maids, Monarchs, Coblers, equally obey;
Thy poignant dart made rapid with a feather,
Pierces alike the sole, the upper leather:
Nought can resist thy sharp, thy gentle touch,
Thee all obey in little, and in much:
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And spread their Sovereign's image thro' the land;
Enraptur'd fall where e'er the arrow's sped,
The daisied Meadow, or the damask'd Bed;
Such is thy sovereign power, thy sovereign sway,
Beauty, fair ruler of the night and day.
Hail! gentle Empress hail! to mortals given;
Beauty thou first, thou fairest work of Heaven.
Of Men and Angels, thou sweet wonder, deign
To aid the Lover, and the Poet's strain:
Inspire my verse, inspire my am'rous tongue,
Till praise, thy due, breathes musical in song!
Inspire the Muse, that she may soar above
All meaner waters, to the spring of Love!
Whether Cythera fam'd, or Ida sing?
The Muse impatient seeks the silver spring.
Bold's the attempt,—but what won't Beauty turn?
If even Illium was again to burn;
If the whole globe itself was Beauty's foe,
The Globe I'd burn; or would aspiring shew;
Like Paris, with dear Venus on my side,
How Hector fought, and how Achilles dy'd.
If even Illium was again to burn;
If the whole globe itself was Beauty's foe,
The Globe I'd burn; or would aspiring shew;
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How Hector fought, and how Achilles dy'd.
Bold be th'attempt! yet will I boldly sing,
And with a quill indite from Cupid's wing:
In these chaste days what cause for fears, or frights,
When Charles will run to read what Denham writes!
In these chaste days, when essays please the ears
Of Monarchs, Bishops, Ministers and Peers;
When men, flagitious men, are rais'd to place,
For acts of lewdness, not for acts of grace:
And one because of a more pious soul,
Sets up a chaste High-Steward to the whole:
In such chaste days, must I refuse to tell,
Of all the Beauties round my Cooper's Well.
And with a quill indite from Cupid's wing:
In these chaste days what cause for fears, or frights,
When Charles will run to read what Denham writes!
In these chaste days, when essays please the ears
Of Monarchs, Bishops, Ministers and Peers;
When men, flagitious men, are rais'd to place,
For acts of lewdness, not for acts of grace:
And one because of a more pious soul,
Sets up a chaste High-Steward to the whole:
In such chaste days, must I refuse to tell,
Of all the Beauties round my Cooper's Well.
Then tell my Muse, for thou, or none can'st tell;
The hidden Mystries of that sacred Well,
Where Wilmot sprung, and oft' where Wilmot dy'd?
The Well which swallow'd old Illium's pride:
A Well, as deep as nine times day and night,
A Well, unfathom'd by the sons of light:
A Well, tho' deep and dark, yet smooth and strait,
A Well, frequented by the brave and great:
A Well, where Adam lav'd in days of Yore,
A Well, where Bishops dabble, and adore:
Confess'd by Connoisseurs whom pleasures move,
The bliss of mortals, is the Well of love.
The hidden Mystries of that sacred Well,
Where Wilmot sprung, and oft' where Wilmot dy'd?
The Well which swallow'd old Illium's pride:
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A Well, unfathom'd by the sons of light:
A Well, tho' deep and dark, yet smooth and strait,
A Well, frequented by the brave and great:
A Well, where Adam lav'd in days of Yore,
A Well, where Bishops dabble, and adore:
Confess'd by Connoisseurs whom pleasures move,
The bliss of mortals, is the Well of love.
Seated within a Grot of make divine,
Built without mortar, chisel, rule, or line:
Soft moss without; of lively crimson hue
The canopy, the architect, more true
Than ever Michael Angelo or Wren
Design'd, or finish'd for the proudest Men.
Such seems the lovely place, made only proud,
To be the bearer of a royal load;
Than which, a nobler weight no mountain bears,
But Juno who supports the king of spheres.
When nature's hand this spot did thus advance,
'Twas guided by a wiser Pow'r than chance;
Mark'd out for softest use, as if 'twere meant
That man and fortunes here, should both be spent.
Nor can we call it choice; when what we chuse,
The coldest apathy cou'd not refuse.
Built without mortar, chisel, rule, or line:
Soft moss without; of lively crimson hue
The canopy, the architect, more true
Than ever Michael Angelo or Wren
Design'd, or finish'd for the proudest Men.
Such seems the lovely place, made only proud,
To be the bearer of a royal load;
Than which, a nobler weight no mountain bears,
But Juno who supports the king of spheres.
When nature's hand this spot did thus advance,
'Twas guided by a wiser Pow'r than chance;
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That man and fortunes here, should both be spent.
Nor can we call it choice; when what we chuse,
The coldest apathy cou'd not refuse.
High on two alabaster pillars rear'd
(Which Popes have kiss'd, and Infidels rever'd)
The grotto was; where men of all degrees
Present their largest off'rings on their knees;
But gen'rous Love returns a little loth
Layers, in hopes of a luxuriant growth.
So tradesmen wishing to encrease their store,
Give you good weight to have your custom more.
(Which Popes have kiss'd, and Infidels rever'd)
The grotto was; where men of all degrees
Present their largest off'rings on their knees;
But gen'rous Love returns a little loth
Layers, in hopes of a luxuriant growth.
So tradesmen wishing to encrease their store,
Give you good weight to have your custom more.
Soft, Mossy Grotto, exquisitely fair,
The work of Jove himself, and man's chief care:
O! how thou tempting smiles, t'attempt the small
Ascent, accessible to one: but all
Alternate climb the little snowy Hill,
And when obtain'd, enjoy it to their fill.
Mid-way one Entrance leads, that Entrance small,
Which all mankind have pass'd to gain this Ball:
And tho' the Entrance won't admit the day,
Still in obscurity it's truly gay:
The end unknown:—altho' the strict employ
Of men of Courage, and of men of Joy:
Thousands have toil'd to reach the endless goal,
And all in striving spent their mighty all;
Returning faint, without their former might;
Praising the joys of darkness more than light.
Around grew wanton shrubs, of various hue,
In wanton tufts, seem'd wanton as they grew:
Luxuriant creeping as they dangl'd o'er
To kiss the borders of the flowery shore:
In this neat Grotto, thro' a dark Alcove,
Rises the spring of Cooper's Well, and Love;
(Where the blind, purpled pinion'd Prince of hearts,
Hangs up his armory, shields, quivers, darts:)
Which in a gentle rill, runs gently through
The nether tufts, and wets each pendent bough;
Oft on these boughs a thousand airy things,
When tir'd with bathing, dry their little wings:
Prolifick stream! which can at once give Breath
To various Creatures, and eternal death:
Thrice powerful stream, which can destroy and save,
And prove at once the cradle and the grave:
No wonder why ye so desirous cling,
To hold a Manor near so fair a spring:
O! could I change my state, and with ye dwell
Within the borders of my Cooper's Well;
All my possessions in this world I'd give,
To only die, where you are known to live.
Prolifick stream, and more prolifick fry,
Where myriads quicken, and where myriads die.
O! could I flow like thee, and make thy stream
My only pass-time, as it is my theme;
Tho' deep, yet clear; tho' gentle, yet not dull;
And like the Thames too pleases most when full.
Heaven, shall no more her Via lactis
boast,
Her Fame in thy more milky current lost:
Thy gentle stream shall visit Jove's abodes,
Shine with the stars, and bathe the Heathen Gods.
O! it shall flow to th'world's extreamest ends,
Endless itself, its azure stream extends.
Yes, shalt thou flow tho' sword, or time, or fire,
Or lust and zeal more fierce than they, conspire,
Secure, whilst thee the best of Poets sings,
Enjoy'd and nourish'd by the best of Kings.
The work of Jove himself, and man's chief care:
O! how thou tempting smiles, t'attempt the small
Ascent, accessible to one: but all
Alternate climb the little snowy Hill,
And when obtain'd, enjoy it to their fill.
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Which all mankind have pass'd to gain this Ball:
And tho' the Entrance won't admit the day,
Still in obscurity it's truly gay:
The end unknown:—altho' the strict employ
Of men of Courage, and of men of Joy:
Thousands have toil'd to reach the endless goal,
And all in striving spent their mighty all;
Returning faint, without their former might;
Praising the joys of darkness more than light.
Around grew wanton shrubs, of various hue,
In wanton tufts, seem'd wanton as they grew:
Luxuriant creeping as they dangl'd o'er
To kiss the borders of the flowery shore:
In this neat Grotto, thro' a dark Alcove,
Rises the spring of Cooper's Well, and Love;
(Where the blind, purpled pinion'd Prince of hearts,
Hangs up his armory, shields, quivers, darts:)
Which in a gentle rill, runs gently through
The nether tufts, and wets each pendent bough;
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When tir'd with bathing, dry their little wings:
Prolifick stream! which can at once give Breath
To various Creatures, and eternal death:
Thrice powerful stream, which can destroy and save,
And prove at once the cradle and the grave:
No wonder why ye so desirous cling,
To hold a Manor near so fair a spring:
O! could I change my state, and with ye dwell
Within the borders of my Cooper's Well;
All my possessions in this world I'd give,
To only die, where you are known to live.
Prolifick stream, and more prolifick fry,
Where myriads quicken, and where myriads die.
O! could I flow like thee, and make thy stream
My only pass-time, as it is my theme;
Tho' deep, yet clear; tho' gentle, yet not dull;
And like the Thames too pleases most when full.
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Her Fame in thy more milky current lost:
Thy gentle stream shall visit Jove's abodes,
Shine with the stars, and bathe the Heathen Gods.
O! it shall flow to th'world's extreamest ends,
Endless itself, its azure stream extends.
Yes, shalt thou flow tho' sword, or time, or fire,
Or lust and zeal more fierce than they, conspire,
Secure, whilst thee the best of Poets sings,
Enjoy'd and nourish'd by the best of Kings.
Here, the thick roughness of the mossy wood,
Yields to the gentle thrillings of the flood:
Such wide extremes, here, Nature doth unite,
That none can view them but must feel delight.
The stream's so milky, silky, strong and clear,
That, Charles himself bathes here the silken year.
Oft' have I known the King, when great affairs
Call'd him to Council; here, unfix'd from cares,
Enraptur'd bathe his sturdy limbs, and dwell
Supinely, kindly, within Cooper's Well.
The shrubs which grew around the brim, he made
His soft retreat, where no man durst invade
His soft repose, so freed from all alarms
By turns he lives, and dies in Beauty's arms.
Love, and Enjoyment, thus, like war and peace,
Are each the others ruin, and encrease.
Yields to the gentle thrillings of the flood:
Such wide extremes, here, Nature doth unite,
That none can view them but must feel delight.
The stream's so milky, silky, strong and clear,
That, Charles himself bathes here the silken year.
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Call'd him to Council; here, unfix'd from cares,
Enraptur'd bathe his sturdy limbs, and dwell
Supinely, kindly, within Cooper's Well.
The shrubs which grew around the brim, he made
His soft retreat, where no man durst invade
His soft repose, so freed from all alarms
By turns he lives, and dies in Beauty's arms.
Love, and Enjoyment, thus, like war and peace,
Are each the others ruin, and encrease.
Cooper, thy Well long fam'd, long known the best,
Between the civil East, and savage West:
The mighty pow'r it has, the stream it makes,
Reduces other streams, to common jakes;
A stream superior to all min'ral streams,
If streams are priz'd by matter like our themes:
If min'ral tincts give Beauties to a rill,
What rill can tinct like thine, what current trill?
Iris, herself in all her wat'ry pride,
Falls short of thy more variegated tide:
Can Wilmot paint, or less renowned Gage,
(The great map-jobber of the present age)
A map of various dyes, with all this skill,
As the smart stream which runs from Cooper's-Rill.
No more shall he those various colours boast,
Their fame in thy metallic stream is lost:
Thine shall mæander, and like Arethuse,
Receive Alpheus at a secret sluice:
Thine shall surpass the muddy stygian pool,
Where Mother Thetis dip'd her Hero Fool:
Nay, that fair stream, when he could passion's feel,
Where he, more wanton bath'd his mortal heel.
Thine too shall raise more wonder in the land,
Than that which bubbled o'er a golden sand:
More golden thine with more attractive power,
When gently trilling in the darling hour.
Be not inquisitive the depth t'explore,
Search not the bottom, but survey the shore.
Nor shall Scamander's stream, which Homer sings,
Surpass the power of thy relaxing springs;
But what a pause hath old Scamander made;
Like City Wells dry'd up by too much trade.
Thus thirsty time insatiate drinks, and dries
The streams we love, the flood-gates to our joys.
But when these currents (where the Great have div'd,
The stoutest fainted, tho' they bravely striv'd,
Emollient Baths where mighty Gods and Kings,
Have bath'd their members, and ador'd the springs)
Are dry'd of all, but heavy casual rains:
O! what a yawning chasm alas! remains!
A chasm more dark, a chasm more deep, and streight,
Something like that, when, Satan's hellish weight,
Bore him with such velocity from light,
“Nine times the space which measures day and night.”
An hideous place where hoary weeds are found,
Where, no kind dews revive the unplough'd ground.
Where, Nature's choicest seeds will never grow,
Where, Beauty fades, and Flowers have ceas'd to blow:
'Tis thus with Beauty—not with Cooper's Well,
When age appears, the Graces bid farewell:
Smiles then are vain, when ev'ry dimple sleek,
In wrinkles lengthen down the wither'd cheek;
When age has giv'n the rose the winter nip,
And all the cherry quits the pouting lip;
When Cupid steals his Quiver from the eye,
To youth belong the little feats of joy:
Age must resign, nor Lovers ever prove;
When Youth, and Beauty, quit thy Grotto Love.
Let more religious pastimes court your ease,
For with these travel all the arts to please!
Between the civil East, and savage West:
The mighty pow'r it has, the stream it makes,
Reduces other streams, to common jakes;
A stream superior to all min'ral streams,
If streams are priz'd by matter like our themes:
If min'ral tincts give Beauties to a rill,
What rill can tinct like thine, what current trill?
98
Falls short of thy more variegated tide:
Can Wilmot paint, or less renowned Gage,
(The great map-jobber of the present age)
A map of various dyes, with all this skill,
As the smart stream which runs from Cooper's-Rill.
No more shall he those various colours boast,
Their fame in thy metallic stream is lost:
Thine shall mæander, and like Arethuse,
Receive Alpheus at a secret sluice:
Thine shall surpass the muddy stygian pool,
Where Mother Thetis dip'd her Hero Fool:
Nay, that fair stream, when he could passion's feel,
Where he, more wanton bath'd his mortal heel.
Thine too shall raise more wonder in the land,
Than that which bubbled o'er a golden sand:
99
When gently trilling in the darling hour.
Be not inquisitive the depth t'explore,
Search not the bottom, but survey the shore.
Nor shall Scamander's stream, which Homer sings,
Surpass the power of thy relaxing springs;
But what a pause hath old Scamander made;
Like City Wells dry'd up by too much trade.
Thus thirsty time insatiate drinks, and dries
The streams we love, the flood-gates to our joys.
But when these currents (where the Great have div'd,
The stoutest fainted, tho' they bravely striv'd,
Emollient Baths where mighty Gods and Kings,
Have bath'd their members, and ador'd the springs)
Are dry'd of all, but heavy casual rains:
O! what a yawning chasm alas! remains!
100
Something like that, when, Satan's hellish weight,
Bore him with such velocity from light,
“Nine times the space which measures day and night.”
An hideous place where hoary weeds are found,
Where, no kind dews revive the unplough'd ground.
Where, Nature's choicest seeds will never grow,
Where, Beauty fades, and Flowers have ceas'd to blow:
'Tis thus with Beauty—not with Cooper's Well,
When age appears, the Graces bid farewell:
Smiles then are vain, when ev'ry dimple sleek,
In wrinkles lengthen down the wither'd cheek;
When age has giv'n the rose the winter nip,
And all the cherry quits the pouting lip;
When Cupid steals his Quiver from the eye,
To youth belong the little feats of joy:
Age must resign, nor Lovers ever prove;
When Youth, and Beauty, quit thy Grotto Love.
101
For with these travel all the arts to please!
But dire mishaps like these can never dwell
Within the circle of my Cooper's Well;
Where blushing flowers are timely seen to blow,
And seeds prolific most luxuriant grow;
Where streams mæander, and where Fountains play,
And smiles and sun-shine sport the live-long day:
Where am'rous sighs steal gently o'er the calm,
And softly whisper, whence they stole their balm:
Where softest motions, softest musick suit,
Beyond the German, or the Dorian Flute:
Musick which gives emotion to the heart,
A fainting flutter, and a pleasing smart.
And in the mixture of all these appears
Variety, which all the rest endears.
Within the circle of my Cooper's Well;
Where blushing flowers are timely seen to blow,
And seeds prolific most luxuriant grow;
Where streams mæander, and where Fountains play,
And smiles and sun-shine sport the live-long day:
Where am'rous sighs steal gently o'er the calm,
And softly whisper, whence they stole their balm:
Where softest motions, softest musick suit,
Beyond the German, or the Dorian Flute:
Musick which gives emotion to the heart,
A fainting flutter, and a pleasing smart.
And in the mixture of all these appears
Variety, which all the rest endears.
No more of past'rals, and Elysian Bow'rs,
No more of Enna, or of Enna's Flow'rs:
No more of spreading roots, or thriving seeds,
Of weeping Willows, or of whistling reeds;
No more of gentle Arethusa's streams,
The Poet's fancies, or the Lover's dreams!
Those roots, those seeds, those streams, and blushing flow'rs,
Those weeping Willows, and those roseate Bow'rs;
Are now excell'd by Cooper's Flow'rs, and Streams,
By Cooper's Fancies, and by Cooper's Dreams.
O! Love triumphant, could I but recount,
The thousands which have lav'd in Beauty's fount!
Vain is th'attempt:—suffice it then to sing,
That Adam bath'd in the attractive spring;
That first good man the first example gave,
And we with joy, and filial rev'rence have
In soft gradation swam with life and limb,
And still progressive, and obedient swim.
No more of Enna, or of Enna's Flow'rs:
No more of spreading roots, or thriving seeds,
Of weeping Willows, or of whistling reeds;
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The Poet's fancies, or the Lover's dreams!
Those roots, those seeds, those streams, and blushing flow'rs,
Those weeping Willows, and those roseate Bow'rs;
Are now excell'd by Cooper's Flow'rs, and Streams,
By Cooper's Fancies, and by Cooper's Dreams.
O! Love triumphant, could I but recount,
The thousands which have lav'd in Beauty's fount!
Vain is th'attempt:—suffice it then to sing,
That Adam bath'd in the attractive spring;
That first good man the first example gave,
And we with joy, and filial rev'rence have
In soft gradation swam with life and limb,
And still progressive, and obedient swim.
No more of Woodstock or of Hampton's Bow'rs,
Where Harry Tudor rank'd the first of flow'rs:
Where amorous Charles sows out imperial seeds,
And then transplants them forth to run to weeds;
No more of Jets, Ah Ahs, and rough Cascades,
Of tinkling Rills, and aromatic Shades;
No more of grottos, or sequester'd cells,
Of conic arches, or unfathom'd Wells;
Here Priests in happy contemplations dwell,
It is religion, and religion's cell;
No more of ruin's nodding in the air,
Compos'd of stones that ever want repair;
No more of breathing Statues cut in stone,
Or speaking Pictures by a Raphael drawn.
Above all Bowers, Cooper's Bowers rise,
And ev'ry Ah Ah, this Ah Ah outvies;
The rill more tinckles, and the shade's more sweet,
The Grot's more cool, and deeper's the retreat:
The Arch more conic, and the Well more deep,
(If we may credit those who've try'd the steep:)
The strongest stones this Well reduces too,
And like Amphion raises them anew:
Statues, nor Pictures, can such charms excell,
For all who see it sigh for Cooper's Well.
Where Harry Tudor rank'd the first of flow'rs:
103
And then transplants them forth to run to weeds;
No more of Jets, Ah Ahs, and rough Cascades,
Of tinkling Rills, and aromatic Shades;
No more of grottos, or sequester'd cells,
Of conic arches, or unfathom'd Wells;
Here Priests in happy contemplations dwell,
It is religion, and religion's cell;
No more of ruin's nodding in the air,
Compos'd of stones that ever want repair;
No more of breathing Statues cut in stone,
Or speaking Pictures by a Raphael drawn.
Above all Bowers, Cooper's Bowers rise,
And ev'ry Ah Ah, this Ah Ah outvies;
The rill more tinckles, and the shade's more sweet,
The Grot's more cool, and deeper's the retreat:
The Arch more conic, and the Well more deep,
(If we may credit those who've try'd the steep:)
The strongest stones this Well reduces too,
And like Amphion raises them anew:
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For all who see it sigh for Cooper's Well.
Cætera Desiderantur.
Dictus et Amphion, Thebanæ conditor urbis,
Saxa movere sono testudinis, et prece blandæ
Ducere quò vellet.
Saxa movere sono testudinis, et prece blandæ
Ducere quò vellet.
—Hor: De Arte Poet.
Amphion play'd so well the Theban riggle,
He made their stones to skip, their Girls to giggle:
His pipe and tabor touch'd so much the blood,
The merry Piper did what e're he wou'd.
He made their stones to skip, their Girls to giggle:
His pipe and tabor touch'd so much the blood,
The merry Piper did what e're he wou'd.
I am greatly divided whether this composition is really Sir John Denham's, altho' the manuscript strictly declares it such. I should rather conceive it to be some of the salacious Geniuses of that time, who wanted to vex the chaste Knight, by a parody on his Cooper's-Hill: but tho' the thought and words have or have not, an obscene tendency, nevertheless they are so neatly rolled up, as to avoid offence to the chastest eye and ear.
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